


Life of Song

by StarsOverTheEast



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 01:57:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13307982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsOverTheEast/pseuds/StarsOverTheEast
Summary: "A song of power. The very force that had bought Arda into existence and in whose winds and water could still be heard the voice of the holy ones. That Finrod might call upon such power now, perhaps the greatest moment he ever would, seemed to be the only hope. "-Moments of Finrod's life, told in the songs he hears and sings.





	Life of Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hindue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hindue/gifts).



> http://eomer.tumblr.com/post/172676178003/much-to-the-delight-of-the-children-on-his-lap-a
> 
> Beautiful, beautiful artwork based on this, found in above link.

_Finrod cannot recall his first song …_

_… But he has heard the tales._

_He laughs sometimes at the ideas of men, of those who believed elves sprung into existence fully grown and sprouting wisdom. The truth, he thinks, is far more beautiful. An elf’s first word marks the beginning of their memory. For Finrod, it was the name of his father._

_His father who had sung to him at birth._

_“I had taken you into my arms,” Finarfin had told him, “carried you onto the balcony. Our people were born beneath the stars and it seemed only fitting that you should gaze upon them.”_

If a more precious, more beautiful sight had ever existed in Valinor Finarfin had never laid eyes upon such a thing. Nor would he have wished to, not now. Not when every moment was a delight, every small action made by the bundle resting in his arms. A small raised hand, a bounce of a golden curl, a smile at the sound of his name.

“Finrod, my son.”

Behind him, inside the candle lit room, he could hear the voices of those still inside. The sound of dear Eärwen’s joyful laughter. The warm tone of his father Finwë. His brother Fingolfin’s loud voice calling for a drink and a toast to the proud mother. 

“I would sing to you Finrod,” he whispered, “sing to you and The One who has given you unto me.”

It would not be so long before the babe was able to truly understand his words but as Finarfin spoke the child turned his gaze from the stars that had captured his attention and back towards his father’s face. 

_He whispered a song about the stars, of gentle speech and loving remarks.  
Of babies born and fathers made, of mothers glad and children at play._

_Silver hair and gentle waves, maidens that dance and often sing.  
Of shining jewels and treasures wrought, fiery and giving hearts._

As though in answer Finrod made a few noises of his own, seeming to delight in how his father glowed as he sung. If possible a even larger smile came to Finarfin’s face. For a moment the years seemed to stretch out before him. A daydream of his son grown, glowing with the power of song and singing with the voice of an ainu rose in mind. The feeling of pride in his chest suddenly threatened to overwhelm him, bursting into a thousand different warm colors. 

The sound of an opened door drove him from daydream and Finarfin turned to meet Fëanor’s knowing glance. At Fëanor’s side rested his son who now peeked around the doorway, a smile on his face at the sight of his new cousin. 

“Father Finwë wishes to give the child his blessing.” Finarfin’s older brother said, laying a hand on his own son’s head. “You might bring the child within before the passing of this age.”

“This moment could pass over the course of an age, and I would not be satisfied.”

A rare smile appeared upon Fëanor’s face.

“You will have many more moments, I assure you. Come now, allow Finrod to be adored by the entire family.”

-

_His next memory of song is far more clear._

_His mother, Eärwen, running a comb through his golden hair and Finarfin appearing in the door after a journey to Tirion. He had jumped from his chair and launched himself into his father’s awaiting arms. They had wandered together out onto the balcony overlooking the sea and long hours had passed as questions were asked and answers were given._

_And Finrod could hardly have imagined a more wonderful time._

If there had been more questions posed to be asked, Finrod could not recall them. Indeed it seemed as though his father had answered everything to his proper satisfaction and now the only task left of the day seemed to be that of rest. The dusk of the light of the trees hung over them and in his mind’s eye Finrod could see the fair maiar of Irmo as they arose from their beds of silver flowers and prepared to weave dreams beneath Telperion.

“Will you tell me a story?”

“A story?”

“Yes.”

Finrod leaned back against his father’s chest, eyes blinking slowly as he awaited his father’s answer. That it would come was a given but there was a question of ‘what’ to be considered and Finrod secretly hoped that a tale of Uinen would be forthcoming. 

“I might sing to you,” Finarfin said suddenly, raising his hand as if to receive something. “A different song than those I have sung before.”

A different song? Despite his heavy eyelids Finrod sat upright, searching his father’s face for answers. The songs upon his father’s lips were often that of his mother’s people; songs of the sea and gentle voyages. Perhaps his father intended to sing as his uncle Fëanor sometimes did. Songs for work, sung beside raging fires and and complied by the ringing of hammers.

“A song of power.” Finarfin answered. 

“Like the Holy Ones?”

Finarfin grew quiet for a moment, his eyes closed in thought for a brief moment before the words flowed from his mouth.

_He sang a song of happiness, of creatures at play and song all day.  
Of flowers so bright and music of delight. _

_Of cities on hills and smiths in their halls,  
Elves who carve mountains, and create jewels so bright. _

As Finarfin sung it seemed to Finrod that the sky above them had grown dark, the dusk suddenly giving way to full twilight. Wisps of white danced before him and as Finarfin’s voice rose they began to take shape as visions of flowers, birds, and jewels. 

As Finrod watched the wisps melted away, reforming into a bright city upon a hill. Banners blew in an unfelt wind upon the towers and elves issued from its doors.

Springing forward Finrod stretched forth his hand towards the marvelous sight, gasping as it fell away but not before leaving the feel of smooth marble on his fingertips.

“It is but a vision, my son,” called Finarfin. With his voice silenced so to was the grand images before them. The sky grew light again and Finrod turned in search for any lingering white.

“It was very beautiful,” he breathed, returning to his father’s side and gazing up at him with a hopeful look. “Will you create another?”

Finarfin smiled, smoothing the stray strands of his son’s hair.

“In time, and in time perhaps you will join me for I perceive that the talent of a minstrel lies upon you. Greater than my own.”

A minstrel? Finrod searched his father’s face for answers as he lifted him into his arms and turned towards the doorway where Eärwen awaited them with a smile.

It was the first night he dreamed of song, but not the last.

-

_Finrod recalls well the first time he met the second born, the followers, his younger brothers._

_Fresh to the world and curious of its wonders. Eager to learn and cautious of the shadow that lingered at the edge of the light of their campfires._

_He had come among them, played songs of enchantment and they had marveled at every note._

_It was there he had first sung to them._

“Will you play the music again?”

The child at Finrod’s feet gazed up at him with a hopeful smile. At his side, her hand being held firmly in his own, stood a small girl with smears of berries upon her cheek. A curious pair and one that Finrod could hardly help but delight in. 

“What song do you want to hear?” He asked, taking a seat by the fire and motioning for the children to come nearer. 

They were marvelous, these men. Full of new, fascinating ideas and thoughts and customs. Finrod felt he could linger by their side for the passing of many years and even then his knowledge of them would not be complete. Nor would he wish it to.

“The pretty song,” the girl said. 

Finrod grinned, and taking it as all the assurance she needed, the child wiggled her hand free and trotted towards the elf. She collapsed into his open arms, her face pressed into his golden hair. Her brother let out a soft gasp, though whether it was for fear of his sister being punished or jealously in her getting to touch the stranger, Finrod did not know. 

“Come,” he said, adjusting the first child onto one knee, “sit with us.”

Any hesitation (and stern orders from parents over not bothering their guest) quickly faded from the boy’s mind and he took a place on Finrod’s other knee, gazing up at the elf with wide eyes.

“Now,” Finrod continued, “which pretty song?”

“The one about you?”

“Me?”  
Another song about his own kin? Finrod thought for a second, searching his mind for tales of his own youth. Perhaps the words would not sound so right in the language of the men but he was quite sure the meaning and theme would still be there. The two were so very alike after all, their people.

Ah, but that was a song all unto itself. Wasn’t it?

_He sang a song of children at play, of childhood games and rhymes and names.  
Of dancing, spinning, falling down. Of friendships made and hearts bound._

_Curious foods and smiles so wide. Hands that grasp and souls unmarred.  
Laughter in trees and stories told about the fire. Sleep under the stars, and dreams not shattered._

Much to the delight of the children on his lap a being of sparkling blue faded into form on the log beside them. A small figure, much their own height with pointed ears and wearing a wide smile. An elf child, much like themselves and wearing the garments of their own people while it seemed that their own tattered garments had taken the form of elvish robes. 

Finrod’s voice carried strong now and about the activity about the small camp halted as the people turned towards his voice. He could hear their voices as they spoke among themselves, whispers of holy beings and dreams sprung to life. Surely the children upon his lap would be blessed now, to hear and see such visions. 

The girl reached forward, her fingers stretched wide and as she did the blue figure mirrored her reactions; their hands joined and the gentle noise of the laughter filled the air about the camp. 

-

_Finrod remembers the Quest well. Remembers Beren’s plead and the ring that had rested heavy upon his finger and spoke to him of an oath that he was bound to honor._

_He remembers the magic he wove for him, the disguises and enhancements and the words of hope that had been passed from ear to ear to keep hearts light and full of hope._

_And he remembers the singing._

“Who are you?”

His heart sinking in his chest, Finrod pressed a fist to his side as the fallen one moved about his small group in a tight circle. 

“You move with great speed but I have received no news from our Lord and Master that he requires so greatly so small a group to assist him. Have you no deeds to report of?”

He was breaking the illusion; Finrod could feel Sauron reaching out like a blackened hand to probe the group and discover the secrets that lay beneath. Had it but been a servant of lower rank, had the path but been covered only in orcs …

“Will you not answer?”

Sauron paused before the king, his breath foul against Finrod’s face and his eyes dark as he searched for an answer. 

A song of power. The very force that had bought Arda into existence and whose winds and water could still be heard the voice of the holy ones. That Finrod might call upon such power now, perhaps the greatest moment he ever would, seemed to be the only hope. 

He sang a song of warriors made, of power strong and evil at bay.  
Of voices loud and foes at rest. Of battles waged and the night swept away.

The air about them seemed to crack with the lightning of the Elder King as he sang, his arms outstretched to either side. And for a second Sauron stumbled back, his face conveying a expression of doubt and shock as though Finrod had struck him a physical blow. 

And then he smiled. 

“You think to challenge me?”

_He chanted a song of wizardry, Of piercing, opening, of treachery, Revealing, uncovering, betraying._

_Then sudden Felagund there swaying, Sang in a song of staying, Resisting, battling against power, Of secrets kept, strength like a tower, And trust unbroken, freedom, escape;_

If Finrod’s voice had ever so stirred Arda it did so now to a degree he had never known before. A feeling of warmth crept across his skin, a surge of energy and a hope deep in his heart. That Sauron was powerful was well known to him; even now the fallen one stood as though into blaze in a fire, one hand lifted to repeal his words.

“That is it!” Beren cried, his hand falling onto Finrod’s shoulder and then being jerked away at the feel of the song’s power radiating from the elf’s skin. 

In his mind’s eye he could see them, his people, his family. Clad in shining armor and wielding swords that shone with the light of the Blessed Realm. Sweeping into battle against Morgoth’s forces as a storm and laying low the dark fortress. 

The sound of birds! The birds of dear Nargothrond whose voice Finrod so greatly adored. Singing and calling and he wondered if Sauron could hear it as well. And the sound of the sea! The soft waves sweeping about his feet and then a mighty torrent to carry the dark one away. 

For a second the fire about Sauron faltered, wavering to but a spark of light before bursting forth suddenly in a brilliant flash of red. 

Red.

Like the ocean running crimson with blood. 

Finrod gasped, his feet faltering beneath him and suddenly threatening to send him crashing to the ground. The light that his words had bought to the dark island faded against the shadows that seemed to creep in like so many spiders and Finrod felt himself bending. 

“Do you hear them,” Sauron’s voice whispered in his ear. “The captives of Angband mourn for your fall. They will weep for you tonight as their hands run with blood and their bones break beneath the whip.”

His voice. His voice … it … he wasn’t loud enough! Not loud enough to block out the screams, to block out the burning of the flames and the -

_And Finrod fell before the throne._

-

_Finrod holds the song sung in the dark as dear in his heart. One of despair and desperation and the one in which he had strove to bring hope to a dear friend's heart and give life to._

_He recalls it with a shudder even now, and with a feeling of mourning for a soul he will not see until the world's ending._

_He recalls it, and the words are bitter on his tongue._

He could hear Beren’s soft cry at his side. 

Taking another gulp of air into his lungs, Finrod shuddered at the sound of the chains about his arms and legs. They had bitten into his skin, leaving marks of angry red and held him fast like an animal within a cage. 

No, no not an animal. Finrod felt very beneath that. The animals, the … beasts … of the island were given free reign and he had often seen their eyes peering down at him from the rim of the pit and heard the cry of their battle. 

They came only on word of their master. A command of death from Sauron that ended in the cry of an elf and the death of another of Finrod’s companions. He had witnessed them all. Felt their fear and his own heartbreak as they were torn from him. 

That their souls now resided in the Halls of Mandos and Beren still breathed was a small comfort though little it seemed against the weight of the shadow upon his heart. Sauron had offered freedom for knowledge of their intentions after he had stripped them of their disguise but no tongue had confessed and they had been sentenced to death. As each wolf descended to them the dark one would repeat his offer and each time be greeted with silence. That he had taken an interest in him, Finrod was well aware of. Just as he was aware that the offer of freedom only lay as a veil over a promise of death. 

And if he did not find a means of escape? Beren’s life would forfeit next.

“I give you one last chance, elf,” Sauron’s voice called from on high. “Reveal to me your errand and I will spare the man the feel of teeth about his throat.”

Lord Manwë - To whom song is beloved and to whom we sing - Remember us, the Noldor

A fierce snarl sounded at the end of the pit then, a gleam of red eyes in the dark.

“Very well,” Sauron said, his voice holding mock disappointment. “Devour him.”

_He chanted a song of teeth and claws, of shadows long and bravery found.  
Of shackles shattered and light in the dark, of limbs make strong and courage abound._

_Creatures that tremble against his might, foes that flee into the night.  
Hope that gathers in homesick hearts, of past omens made true and careless thoughts._

Finrod could feel the the creature’s jaws tear into his skin as his own cramped down on the wolf’s neck, filling his mouth with blood and dirt and sending the both of them rolling about the ground. 

His bonds, torn from the wall, clattered as he fought; a crash of metal upon metal as the wolf’s howls in his ear’s threatened to deafen him. A warmth swept over his chest then, a feeling of something crawling, dripping. 

With a final push the wolf fell to the ground and Finrod beside it, his lung straining for air. 

“Finrod!” Beren’s voice came to him softly, and he could hear his chains rattle as he strove to reach him. How much time had he bought him? Enough for rescue? He could feel a light wind in his thoughts, a gentle singing not of his own that seemed to draw closer with each passing second. Perhaps with his own death Sauron’s attention would turn elsewhere.

And oh, he was dying. 

He had seen the Halls before, gazed upon their dark face from under a bright sky and with the breath of Arda in his lungs. Now it seemed he would pass into them from the shadows and with blood threatening to choke his every breath.

“I go now to my long rest in the timeless halls beyond the seas and the Mountains of Aman. It will be long ere I am seen among the Noldor again; and it may be that we shall not meet a second time in death or life, for the fates of our kindreds are apart. Farewell!”

As the final word left his lips Finrod closed his eyes.

And reopened them to a vision of light.

-

_Finrod can recall too the first song he sung upon rebirth. Not to his mother who had greeted him with tears in her eyes and arms about his shoulders. Not to his father who had stepped forth with guilt in his eyes and a sad smile upon his face._

_No._

_He had sung to her._

_To his beloved._

“What was it like,” came a sudden voice at his chest, the soft whisper sounding like a far bell.

Finrod’s eyes opened and for a moment he sat motionless, gazing down at Amarië. Her hand pressed firmly against his heart she laid beside him and the two had been long content the entire morning. Now it seemed that curiosity had finally got the better of her.

“Do you remember when we met anew?”

“Finrod.”

A question in answer of a question. How was he to deny her outright? He couldn’t, not truthfully but the halls were for the dead and troubled and Amarië was so very much alive and a flower in a land where spring had never given way to winter. 

“You were wearing a dress of blue, with trailing ribbons about your arms and the light of the sea was upon your face.”

“Finrod …”

_He could recall the Halls even now. Songs of sorrow and of mourning. Songs of memory and rebirth. And songs of joy sung by the maia when a soul was given new life. He had heard them all and even lifted his own voice to join them. Indeed, a song had been on his lips even when Mandos had called him forth._

_“A song of sorrow I have heard of late,” the vala had told him. “One that recalled your name and saw to light that which I had not foreseen.”_

_“I heard the song as well,” Finrod whispered. “I know of she who sung it.”_

_“I perceive that song rests in your heart as well, greater than the one you now sing. It has been spent on a far shore and now rests and shapes it self into something greater still.”_

“Amarië.”

“Hmm?”  
“I love you.”

_He chanted a song of mingled hearts, of whispering tongues and sleepless nights.  
Of a couple that walks in so pure a light, of lands where song is always bright. _

_Loved ones returned and arms open wide, dear friends departed and memories dear.  
A quest went astray, a wrong done right. A soul that whose song is forever right._

-

The light of Telperion is bright in the sky when Finrod steps onto the balcony and breathes in the air of the sea below him. The din of the crowd inside seems to fade as he steps forward and peers down at the tiny figure wrapped in blue in his arms.

“Laurion, my son.”

The child peers up at him from under soft curls of golden hair and Finrod beams when a coo issues forth from his lips. Has he has ever loved anything like this? Has anything ever been more beautiful?

Amarië’s soft laughter rises behind him, joined by Finarfin’s own and Finrod cannot for the life of him recall a more happier time. 

_He whispered a song about the stars, of gentle speech and loving remarks.  
Of babies born and fathers made, of mothers glad and children at play._


End file.
